


It's Okay to Cry

by 1960somethingBatman



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman (Comics)
Genre: Bromance, Bruce Wayne is Batman, But he's trying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Except Batman, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Guys can be emotional too, He's not very good at it, Heavy Angst, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Men Crying, Platonic Cuddling, Superman is a good friend, There's A Tag For That, but okay, go off I guess, that should be common knowledge, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22432573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1960somethingBatman/pseuds/1960somethingBatman
Summary: Bruce is really bad at this whole emotion thing. He's grieving and doesn't know how to handle it without falling apart or driving himself into an early grave. Luckily, though, he's got his best friend there to walk him through it.
Relationships: Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71





	It's Okay to Cry

Batman stumbling into his apartment at two in the morning after almost three months of no contact was nothing new. The look in his eyes though, the uneven pounding of his always steady heart, the hint of adrenaline, too much adrenaline, mixed with the stench of blood and sweat, was. There was a trail of blood following him, and the way his weight rested on his left side meant something on his right was definitely broken. 

Clark looked around at the whirlwind that used to be his apartment. Shelves lay smashed and on their side, dismantled furniture was scattered about like a junkyard, each and every box of food he owned was shredded and dumped in a pile where his oven used to be. He didn't know why Batman was here, but help probably wasn’t it. People seeking medical attention generally didn't go about destroying their potential savior's house.

Clark stood silent, stunned. He placed his keys on the counter and followed Batman’s limping form into his bedroom.

"God damn it!" Batman said, one hand pressed to his bleeding side as his other rifled through Clark's drawers, throwing his nice, folded shirts in a heap on the bloodied floor, "Where the hell did he put it?"

Clark crept closer. "Uh, Batman?" He asked, reaching out a hand but pausing, and deciding against it, "You, uh, you okay there?"

"You and your dumbass attitude. Locking me out of the fucking batcomputer,"

"Batman?" 

"Stealing my fucking car keys,"

"Batman,"

"Hiding my goddamn, piece of shit hard drive in Clark Thundercunt Kent's fucking apartment! For fuck's sake could you not get your shit together for one! Goddamned! Second!" He threw the dresser on its side, throwing his fist clean through Clark's wall.

" _Bruce!_ "

"What the hell do you want Kent?!?"

He breathed, forcing the ever-rising fury down and willing his voice to go calm, "You punched a hole in my wall,"

"Yeah? The fuck you going to do about it? I'm busy." He pulled his arm free, "Isn't Louis getting thrown off a building somewhere? Surely there's at least one school bus falling off a bridge,"

"Are you looking for something?"

"Obviously. Don't ask st—" He started coughing, _violently_. He fell against the wall, sliding down it until he was on the ground.

"Bruce!"

"I'm— _cough, cough_ —fine," he said, wiping the blood from his chin. His breathing sounded wet and rattling

"I don't think you know the meaning of the word," he touched Bruce's side, feeling for the clasps on his suit. A gloved hand landed on his own, pushing his arm away.

"No,"

"No? What do you mean, 'no'? Your suit's lead-lined. How am I supposed to see what's broken if I can't—"

"Not…" he was still struggling to control his breath, "Sewing me up,"

"Well, obviously. I don't even need the X-ray vision to see you've got internal damage. I just need to see how bad it is to know whether to take you to Alfred or the Tower." He reached back for Batman's suit.

He swatted his hands away again, "Not taking me to the Tower either," Bruce said, pushing himself up, "Not until I finish— _cough_ —this case,"

"Nuh-uh," he pushed Bruce back down, earning himself a growl, "Not doing that. You are in no condition to be pursuing a lead,"

"I don't have time for this, Clark. I'm finding that hard drive and I'm finishing this case. Get in my way and I swear to God I will kryptonite you into fucking oblivion."

"Bruce," he put his hand on his shoulder, "Look at yourself, you just fell over coughing. How do you expect to fight anyone when you can barely stand?"

He smacked his hand away, "Don't fucking touch me, Kent." 

"Bruce,"

He used the toppled dresser to push himself up. "I'm finishing this case," 

"You know I can literally smell the fear on you, right? And I can hear your heartbeat, too. I doubt anyone that's got you this spooked can be stopped in this condition. You need to stop,"

"It's the Joker,"

"Then the League will deal with him. If anything, that's even more reason for you to sit this one out,"

"You don't understand. Jason—" 

"Stole your hard drive. Yes, I know. I was listening to you yelling at yourself. Look, I'll find it. I'll hand it over to the League and we'll take care of it. But in the meantime, you need a doctor,"

"You don't understand. The kid, that arrogant, self-centered son of a bitch—"

"He's a handful, I get it. I told you kids were a bad idea. You and Jason clash more than you did with Dick, which I swear is going to get one of you killed these days, but—"

"Jason’s dead,"

He froze, his mind going blank, "He… what?"

"He’s dead,"

"He…” another pause, “Jesus, when? How?"

"Last morning. Dumbass finds out his mother was being blackmailed by the Joker and has the audacity to try to handle it himself. That little shit locks me out of the batcomputer, hides my hard drive, takes the batmobile and drives to fucking Ethiopia by himself. He should know better than to take on shit he can't handle,"

Clark knew better than to point out the hypocrisy of that statement.

"Don't look at me like that,"

"I'm not—" 

"It's not my fault if he took on more than he could handle, okay? It's not my fault if he wanted to go it alone. It's not my fault if the kid wanted to blow himself to high heaven right as I'm pulling into the goddamned driveway! It's not my fucking fault!" He kicked Clark's dresser, sending chunks of wood flying. 

Clark stepped forward, putting his hand on his shoulder, "Bruce,"

He flinched but didn't pull away.

"You need to stop,"

"No, I don't. I need to find the Joker and wring his fucking neck until it breaks,"

For the second time that night, his mind went blank, "You're… going to kill him?"

"Damn right. I'm going to gut that bastard like I should have done ages ago. I'll break his legs, carve out his eyes, make him fucking beg me for death before I finally throw his mangled corpse in the bay. But I have to find this damn drive first," He shrugged Clark's hand off, walking over to his bathroom. He started rifling through his cabinets, throwing pill bottles and band-aids to the floor. He paused, looking up to catch Clark's reflection in the mirror. "What? What do you want now?"

"You're… going to kill him,"

"Yes, I already said that. Keep up would, you?" He tisked, moving on to the cupboards below the sink, "It's a fucking hard drive. Where the hell could he have put it?"

"Bruce, you're wrecking my apartment,"

"I can buy you a new one. Fuck off,"

Clark used his x-ray vision, turning around to spot a metal computer board tucked away in the frame of his mattress. He quietly backed up, walked over, and pocketed the drive. Bruce was there when he looked up, glaring at the bulge in his pocket.

"You know you suck at discretion, right?" He held out his hand, "Give it,"

"Bruce,"

"Now,"

"You're not thinking clearly,"

“Did you think I was kidding about the kryptonite?”

“If you go after him you’ll regret it, I know you will. Either because you’ll be dead or because you’ll wish you were. I know you, Bruce. I know how you let your guilt eat away at you. You'll regret this. Friends don't let friends tear themselves apart,”

“I’m not planning on dying if that's what you mean,”

"Maybe not, but I once heard you say that if you ever started, you'd never be able to stop,"

"It'll only be this once,"

“You're not killing him,”

“He killed my fucking son, Clark! Took him, tortured him, and waited until I had a front-row seat before blowing him to smithereens! He made me a goddamned film of it. Made a fucking film filled with every single fucking thing that bastard did to him and sent it to me. Jason was _fifteen_! He was…” emotion welled in his voice as water clouded his eyes. He didn't cry. Batman didn't cry. But he did slump to the ground, a hand reaching under his cowl to wipe at the sting in his eyes, “He was only fifteen,”

Clark sighed, taking a seat beside him. The two sat there for a moment, silence drawing out between them. The communicator on his wrist vibrated, but he silenced it. This took priority.

“I killed him, didn’t I?”

“It’s not your fault,”

“I should have been faster, should have been more prepared, should have planted that tracker in the kid's arm like I wanted to,”

“That’s… okay, we’re setting that one aside for another day. You can’t save everyone, Bruce,”

“I could have saved him! I was the reason he was there that night. I was the one who dragged him into crime-fighting. I thought, God, I thought it’d get him _out_ of trouble,” He rested his arms on his knees, drawing a second hand to his eyes. “You were right, you know,” He said, his voice sounding tired and drained.

“About what?”

“Kids. It was… God, what was I thinking? And you told me. You _told_ me if something were to happen to them it’d—”

“Forget what I told you,”

“It’d be my fault,”

“Bruce, you got the kid off the street,”

“I got him killed,”

“You told me yourself that he would have become a criminal if you hadn’t turned him against them,”

“Better that than dead,”

"And I know that, despite how much the two of you fought, despite how stubborn and disrespectful and arrogant he could be, the kid didn't regret a second of it. He loved being Robin. More so than Dick,"

"It doesn't matter what he loved. He's dead and I killed him," He stood, pulling himself up with the bed and making for the door, "And I need to make things right,"

"Bruce, where are you—" his pocket was empty. Clark rushed around to cut him off, "Bruce, I'm serious. Stop,"

"So am I,"

"You of all people should know that revenge solves nothing,"

"This isn't about revenge, it's about making sure that psychopath never hurts anyone ever again,"

"That's not true and you know it,"

"And so what? How many people have died because I let him walk?"

"You're changing the subject,"

"I'm staying on topic,"

"I told you, the League will handle it. I'll handle it," he took a step towards him, "I'm taking you back to the Tower,"

"Lay one fucking hand on me, Kent, and I'll—" he started coughing again, except this time the wall was no longer there to support him. He collapsed to his knees, blood seeping through the fingers that covered his mouth. 

Clark was at his side in a second, trying to help him sit up. The moment his hand touched Bruce's shoulder, though, a pouch on the utility belt popped open and a small stick of kryptonite was being shoved in his face. He jumped back in shock, the tinge of pain already burning his skin. 

Batman was still coughing, still spitting up blood, but he held that stick in the air as if it were a cross warding off demons. Being in the same room as it _hurt_. It seared deeper than his skin, chewed away at his muscles and joints, sinking down deeper and deeper until even the marrow of his bones felt old and feeble. It was the only time in his life that he ever felt weak, truly, utterly weak, and that terrified him. The thought of Bruce, though, walking out that door, hunting the Joker down for one final, bloody showdown, that was worse. Because it didn't matter who would win the fight. If Bruce left now, he would never come back again.

Clark laid his hand on Batman's outstretched arm, wincing as his own breathing grew heavy. "Bruce," It was hard to hide the pain in his voice. Kryptonite this close was agony, "You’re hurt. _Please_ ,"

Batman turned to face him, his cough settling back down. His eyes glanced from the sweat dripping down the side of Clark’s face to the kryptonite and back again. His scowl softened into a frown. He let his hand sink to his side but the kryptonite was still firmly in his grip. “What do you want me to do, Clark?” He asked, his voice quiet, soft.

"Let me help,"

Another moment stretched between them, still and silent, the only noise coming from Batman's rattled breathing and whir of the ceiling fan above. It stretched longer, and longer still until Clark was beginning to think he screwed up, that he pushed too hard and surely, surely this would be the thing that drove his friend away. The pain was almost blinding now. He was almost about to give in, to admit defeat, to let the man have things his way because Batman was a force of nature and Bruce _always_ had his way. Finally though, _finally_ Batman's hand went back to his belt, the kryptonite slipped back into its lead container, and Bruce spoke. 

"Okay," he said, voice too quiet to even be considered a whisper. Clark heard it though, heard it clear as day. Clark's hand went up, paused, and then around Bruce's head. He hesitated, fingers brushing the back of his armored neck. "Wait," Batman said, his voice still soft and strained. "I can't…" his breath was shaking, afraid, "I won't be able to hold it in,"

"You shouldn't then," Clark said, his fingers gaining more confidence as they found the clasps at the base of the cowl, "It's good to let things out now and again," There was a small hiss of mechanics, and the helmet lifted off.

His breathing hitched.

"It's okay, Bruce," Clark said, his arm snaking its way around the man's back and pulling him close. Bruce grabbed a fistful of his shirt, his grip weak and his hand shaking. His face was scrunched up tight in tension, and there was water lining the edges of his eyelashes, but he was still fighting, still trying to hold himself together. “You can let it out,” 

Another hitch in Bruce’s breathing. Each breath was now shaking, rattling, wet. 

“It’s okay to cry,”

And that was it. Bruce broke. He screamed into Clark’s chest, sobbing his heart out as the man held him. Clark stayed silent, holding him close as he ran a reassuring hand through his black hair. They stayed like that for an hour, several hours until Clark lost track of time. Eventually, Bruce’s voice went hoarse, his tears went dry, and his physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion ran its course, slowly dragging him under. Clark sighed. He should probably get Bruce to a doctor soon, but the man's breathing had evened out, his heart sounded fine, and he just seemed so peaceful lying there, asleep in his arms. He was still running his fingers through Bruce's hair. He'd get him to a doctor eventually, but for now, for this one, short moment, he let him sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, thanks for reading! If you liked it (or didn't) feel free to drop a comment in the comment section. Both compliments and criticism are equally appreciated.


End file.
